Betrayal
by PetPetAngel
Summary: He had worn the shirt to ease his upset nerves before the fight, to have that comfort as he slipped into that dreaded chasm, but now it would surely be his biggest blessing and most taunting torture to remind him of his erroneous calculations. H/W


**Betrayal**

**PetPetAngel**

The soft material of the shirt felt scratchy to his deducing hands, but then again, all the world felt harsh against his senses. Sounds were too loud, sensations too strong, feelings too intense to be handled with in a cold and detached manner as was required of him. If only the world could see what the infamous unofficial consulting detective was reduced to!

It was the night before he knew he was to face Moriarty, and he was not afraid of death.

His only conflicts were concerning his most intimate and perhaps only friend, the good doctor John H. Watson. It was true that he was hardly an emotional man by nature, but even he, himself felt the depth of his betrayal as though it were truly inescapable. Such things were purely self-inflicted, he knew,, but it was a truism nonetheless. Watson would never know, or figure, for he had crafted his plan with such extreme delicacy; but he was a selfish man and felt as though he were already experiencing the grief he knew Watson was to.

Psh! In a moment of insecurity and modesty brought on by the thoughts of the man he was soon to leave, he thought, how am I so self-absorbed to think that Watson would be so affected? He had never known a man who had shown such great loyalty, but Watson was loyal to a fault and cursed with a sort of vision which kept him from growing There had been so many opportunities that he had passed up to be with him, but it was with foolishness, not choice, that Watson had rejected them.

Yes, he had married, yes, he had his practice, but Holmes knew better than to take things at face value. He knew, with some bitterness now, that Watson would follow him to almost any length, have his back no matter whether he was breaking the law or standing on the side of justice. Even scolding Lestrade and other good people, Watson would faithfully stay silent, allow him to be himself without scrutiny. He had passed up so many things to be with him!–and Watson was foolish for doing so,

But he was more the fool for never having appreciated it.

As he sat there in the low light of the candle, he glanced down at the shirt he was so intent upon taking. Even with his absence Holmes knew that Watson was not faring badly with his practice and would certainly not miss it, but there was some part of Holmes which felt criminal, ashamed, in taking it. Criminal actions in the name of justice had never before been repellent to him, but this was somehow different: somehow, he had not yet earned this comfort.

Yes, it was a strange thing to do, but it was something he needed. There was more to Watson's drivel he called writing than the man could ever anticipate, and the true truth which he would never know was something that made him laugh with it's cruel irony. There was more to their friendship than the doctor could ever know, but in hindsight he knew he was right in hiding his deviancy. He was better a machine than a human.

His hand tightened around the cloth of his friend's shirt. Although Watson had often called him a machine, a man without a heart, comments which he had conditioned himself to ignore, the words were simply and indescribably hurtful in lieu of his betrayal and departure. Would such words be the last he would think of his infallible Boswell?

He felt an unnatural burning behind his eyes and pressed his fingers to his face to inspect himself, thinking he was somehow injured.

The moisture on his hands was alarming and he turned to look quickly behind him to check Watson's status. Still sleeping, for the best he knew. His one hand went to cover his mouth and the other to grab the shirt which he pulled closely against his face. It smelled of Watson, his familiar scent which for all his knowledge was hard to place. It was a smell that was honestly defined only by the good doctor himself.

The burning behind his eyes grew in intensity and he pressed Watson's shirt to his face to soak up the tears of his weakness. If Watson ever saw him this way, he had no idea how he would react. He was both guilt-filled and relieved for this expression of grief, and he stood quietly, rearranging things back into their rightful place so that it would be as if he had never disturbed them.

That would be how it would be for Watson's life, as well. It would have to be as though he had never disturbed it with his careless observations, as though he and the most secret object of his affections had never shared lodgings under the roof of one 221B Baker Street.

But still, the thought of leaving him brought immense pain, pain he had never before known himself capable of. To know that an individual–even one as singularly good as Watson–could hold such sway over him was frightening. Silently, he placed the shirt among his own belongings and ignored the nakedness of his honest feelings which attempted to eclipse the logic of his mind. How weak was he! He felt absolutely ridiculous submitting to these softer emotions but knew that he must in order to save face in the long run.

He could not face Moriarty the next day with fear, with weakness.

He could not face Watson the next day with regrets.

-

And so it was then, when they headed out the next morning to see the glorious Reichenbach Falls that he attempted to assemble his thoughts orderly, although the thought alone was impossible. Constantly, he cast glances at Watson beside him as they walked, if not a tad stiffly, to the falls.

His mind was overwhelmed with thoughts and worries, from the false letter that he had given the boy to Watson's shirt that now lay flush against his back. He was not sure if the Doctor had yet noticed it missing, but he prayed that nothing abnormal had been seen from his shut door this morning as he dressed. He could not risk Watson knowing, not even for the slightest moment.

To admit such a detrimental fault to himself was difficult enough; to wear it on his sleeve and to present it to the critical eyes of the world that had scorned him was unthinkable.

It was true that Watson had been an extraordinary companion and invaluable concerning both personal and professional matters, but he earnestly believed that such admission would alter the delicate balance of their relationship. Even now, heading to his death, he could not bear the thought of telling Watson of his sick desires although he knew he had never had a choice in such things. Watson was such a likable individual, and the traits which made him so were without definite sex or gender. It was inevitable that he should end up in this predicament, the shell around his heart shattering.

He was such a terrible man and not because he had supposedly unnatural urges. He was a terrible man because he was betraying the only other person in the world who he had ever admitted intimacy with, the only other person in the world who he had grown to accept depending on. At first it had all been an unfortunate accident, a mistake he repeatedly made, allowing himself to slowly become more and more attached to a Doctor he now called his Boswell. But now, now he could no longer call it an error; now, he acknowledged it and the reality that came along with it. The reality that Watson would never be his.

Walking slowly up the rough terrain, he couldn't help but be distracted by his thoughts and thank the gods he had never before thought of before that he could blame his absentmindedness on Moriarty and their impending battle. But still, he felt guilty and ridiculous for it. He could be no more loyal to his country; and yet here he was, betraying his fellow man who had served him faithfully in reverence. For what may have been the first time in his life, he felt shame at his own actions, for he felt that this act alone made all of his past injustices look acts of a boyscout.

Perhaps they were not the words of a logician.

Perhaps they were the words of a man in love.

-

Although it seemed unlikely, it was only when he was grappling haphazardly up the ledge which led to safety that he realized the gravity of the situation.

He was alive. He had escaped Moriarty, at least in the tangible world, and he was escaping Reichenbach Falls with little more damage done to himself than jostled nerves. However, the same could not be said of the legacy he had left behind; the letter he had written to Watson, he thought with a grimace. How he wished he could rip up that flimsy paper that was so much like his own heart for it's weakness. While he had appreciated the opportunity given to him by Moriarty at the time (even if was offered only as a mockery), now it seemed like a horrid mistake to make.

His reason behind such contempt at himself however was stemmed from silliness: although he had only dared to say so much in his last letter, he felt as though he were truly baring his soul to the doctor. He had said such things with the thought of passing on, and had presence of mind to feel embarrassed. But there was more---Watson was going to be deceived.

And then it struck him: he still had Watson's shirt on. His legs practically crumbled from underneath him, his feet struggling to maintain the few decent footholds he had found at the cruel irony of it all. He had worn the shirt to ease his upset nerves before the fight, to have that comfort as he slipped into that dreaded chasm, but now it would surely be his biggest blessing and most taunting torture to remind him of his erroneous calculations. His mind was reeling with thoughts, but another supposed scream from Moriarty flung him back to reality where he realized that he had to get to safety and out of danger where Watson's return could steal his attention and possibly his life.

An immeasurable time later he laid on the mossy grass of the ledge he had just climbed, his chest heaving more with emotional rather than physical exertion. How could Fate be so cruel and so kind in unison, he wondered vaguely, although he was not usually one for such romantic thoughts. It was, he admitted, much better suited to his Boswell.

His Boswell.

His heart sank, his head resting against the hard rock below.

What would he do about his Boswell? There was no way he could reveal himself now after everything had been so carefully put into place to show his death. If there was even the slightest hint of his livelihood, he knew that criminals, old enemies, would quickly go after Watson and use him as a lure. He could not allow such behavior! And so it was with a troubled heart that he tried to sink further into the ledge, closing his eyes and willing himself to disappear.

It was only when he heard Watson's anguish cry that he jolted into action, turning himself quickly to look at the man. He was completely hidden from view at this point, and so he watched Watson unabashedly. Like some unfathomable horror, the sight that met his eyes was so gruesome that he wished not to see but could not look away. But it was not just seeing Watson look for him wildly, and with such dawning terror on his face, that pulled at his heart so insistently, no.

It was hearing his _voice, _calling his name with such intensity, with such anguish, he felt like he was dying.

He knew he had a flare for the dramatic, but the pain he felt at watching Watson was not an exaggeration. Seeing the color drain from his face, and seeing how he hid his sorrow, it was almost too much to bear. He was so distressed at seeing this he was ready to call out to Watson, to do anything to show that he was fine, albeit a bit worse for wear. He cupped his hand around his mouth and called out, "Wat--"

No! He couldn't do it. He had planned everything with Mycroft so well, too well to throw all their hard work away. And Watson! He knew he was a selfish man, but not so selfish that he would endanger the one he cared for so greatly, and particularly not because of his own carnal urges which, too add to the argument, he was certain were unrequited. What a waste! To put Watson in harm's way, and for what? To drag the doctor across the Continent, his life constantly at risk, so that he could wallow in the pain of his unreturned feelings? No, he was not so selfish.

And so he observed with some guilt as Watson left, heartbroken, and returned dejectedly with the police, and watched as they completed their investigation with swift and completely uncalled for confidence; their conclusion, of course, was completely false but it was exactly what he had wanted them to think. Exactly what he knew Watson needed to think in order to lay the trap for the criminals of London, no matter how it hurt him to do so. Now, he knew Watson would write a convincing account of his death, although he hated to think of how it would pain the man, knowing that before, he would have never thought he would be alive to read it.

They had thought of everything. However, one grievous consideration that they had somehow left out. That _he_ had somehow left out.

There was no one to console Watson. Would Mary be enough? Of course she would, he thought. She was his wife, his one and only, the woman he had left Baker Street for. She was the woman who had captivated him after only moments of being in the same room; she was so deucedly plain that she was spectacularly singular. She was a good woman, he knew, even if she had taken his Watson away from him.

This would have been so much easier if he had simply died.

And all these things were something he only realized as he saw the inspectors leave the place of his unfortunate accident. A sympathetic police officer patted Watson on the shoulder in empty comfort, but the doctor did not respond to it. Now alone, Watson sat on the rock where he had left his cigarette case and the testament to his death that he now hated himself for writing and shook his head in disbelief before quickly getting up.

Even from far away, he realized that Watson was pained at lingering at such a place, but was torn on whether or not to savor the place he had last seen him or run to distance himself from the inner discomfort. Although it was also possible, and more than likely, that he was just giving himself too much a place in the doctor's heart as he was wont to do so often. He turned his face away suddenly, unable to watch any longer.

The fabric of Watson's shirt was pressed firmly against his breast.

He couldn't believe what was happening.

He couldn't believe that he was leaving Watson behind.

_A/N: This is my first Sherlock Holmes fic, so please be gentle with your critique, although I hope no such strong critique will be necessary. :). Perhaps the depiction of Holmes here is a bit softer than is to be expected in a fic that would like to stay true to the Conan, but what can I say, I'm a sentimentalist and romantic much like our dear good doctor and have a tendency to write in such a manner. My sincerest apologies.  
_


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